faithful readers

Hello faithful readers - or non readers.

I suspect someone out there reads this from time to time, although I could be wrong.
I wrote this in a trance, thinking for once, of what they might be like.

Hello faithful readers. Or non-readers, although I do suspect that someone reads this from time to time, at least, at last. I am not entirely sure that their silence on the matter indicates displeasure, although this could be an egotistical delusion on my part. I would like to think of one particular person reading at this moment, the first one that has come to mind. May I point out that my imaginings on this subject are complete fantasy, and have no relation to anyone living or dead (although I’m not sure why they bother putting the last one in, surely no one dead minds at this point? What does it say about us as a culture if we think they mind? I suppose it’s their family we worry about, or is it?).

I imagine this person, distracted from what they call the real labours of their life, which can only be undertaken alone, begins to surf the internet in order to find something amusing to do that will permit them to avoid actual effort. They go over the usual news channels, perhaps a chat room or two, they glance at the responses to pieces they themselves have written. Then, idleness coupled with a hidden desire to see something they fear will be base and dross, which will encourage them in their sweet egotism and permit them to face the day, reminds them of a blog they had heard of, once. For some reason, they actually find the title on the litter of papers and books on their desk. And taking one look out over the green trees and garden of almost middle August, they heave a sigh and hope, in the darkness of their hearts, that it will be readable at worst, and at best, will contain some laughable quote or idea that could be cannibalised. No, there is another deeper layer – and that whispers to them that it might be compromising, it might actually speak the truth about the Pandora’s box of social interaction. Will it be a diary entry, filled with unspoken longings and deep dreaming? Will it mention soft fabrics and tasteful colours, harsh words and hidden desires? Hard wooden seats, and sudden exchanges of eye contact that certainly contain volumes, if only this foolish person could see it? Suppose they do see it?

The person I imagine stops for a moment, energised strangely by the thought that perhaps the blog will reveal that the writer has seen it and even more strangely, has been able to express it. Foolish thoughts! The reader begins their own voyage of imagination, observing the changes wrought in their own mind and body with a sort of wonderment. Not for the first time, they contemplate the fury and power contained in possibility, rather than completion. It is this thought that has let them achieve all that they have. Their ability to sublimate and contain, to push off instant gain for future solidity. The writer, they know, has not done this. They have gone down the road of desire and impulse, they have not been able to support pain, and so in this way have merely increased the difficulty in their life.

The voyeur in the reader wants to see this detailed. They tell themselves that they want to read what they have intelligently avoided in order to feel that they have made the right decisions. They don’t mention to themselves that they would like to see what impulse looks like, and if it resembles any part of what they drift into imagining.

How deep is their shock when they discover a vaguely middle class moan on the observations of the day, class structure and the hours. This is not what they had in mind.

The writer of the blog laughs. If they only knew! This was the one for general consumption! No wonder it is so dull! Then they pause. Perhaps this is why people find the writer’s life dull – as the best parts are hidden.

Note to self: give more clues.